


The Beard

by allfifteenknuckles



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2726585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allfifteenknuckles/pseuds/allfifteenknuckles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Grow out? So this winter we’re going all out hobo?” Ian asks. He can't imagine Mickey with a full-out beard. He's only seventeen. Can seventeen-year-olds even manage to grow one?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beard

**Author's Note:**

> so [mickeysupset](http://mickeysupset.tumblr.com) and [lechevich](http://lechevich.tumblr.com)'s fascination with Mickey's beard totally inspired me to write this fic (:
> 
> also, thanks [pyleas](http://pyleas.tumblr.com) for betaing <3

Ian watches as Mickey grimaced at the sight of Lip and Karen outside the Kash and Grab. In his defense, they were pretty much dry-humping and  _no_  one needs to see that. 

"They're gross aren't they?" Ian asks, feigning casualness.  

" _Yes_. Kind of. Fucking hell. It's just- with the tongues and crap," Mickey shudders at the thought.   

"Never even thought about it?" Ian pursues. He doesn't say the word kissing because Mickey has an unnatural aversion to it. Even though it’s constantly on Ian's mind.  _No_ _one_ can blame him. Mickey's lips just look so soft, plump, and fucking inviting.   

"Would you believe I'm a germaphobe?" Mickey asks, biting his lip. And of course that catches Ian's attention. His eyes trace the way Mickey wets his lips. 

Ian scans Mickey's unwashed, greasy clothes and the dirt that constantly occupied his face. He raises his eyebrows, "Not a chance". 

"Fair point," Mickey says. "But seriously. Tongues are fucking gross. Wouldn't want anyone sticking that in me."  

"You get my dick stuck in you daily! Trust me that's probably dirtier," Ian exclaims.  

"Yeah well one's a necessity and the other is an afterthought," Mickey shrugs. “Now _I_ need to get back to work. People like stealing shit from this craphole.”

Ian just rolls his eyes.

* 

“Okay, seriously, that stubble thing you got going is giving me really bad rashes,” Ian whines as he heads towards the entrance to unlock the Kash and Grab again. 

“Be grateful that I blow you. Quite well, considering your reaction,” Mickey says smugly. Ian likes that Mickey knows just how good he is. They've always been physically compatible. They excel at sex. That’s the one thing that is certain in their 'graytionship' (because that’s what this relationship is; so many shades of gray that Ian can't distinguish anything anymore). 

“When are you getting rid of it?” Ian says, ignoring Mickey’s comment. 

“I’m not,” Mickey says, confidently. 

“Really? I have to deal with that?” Ian asks. Of course the stubble looks good.  _Really_ good. But at what cost? 

“Stop whining, Red. It’ll grow out and become soft. Pinky fucking promise,” Mickey tells him. 

“Grow out? So this winter we’re going all out hobo?” Ian asks. He can't imagine Mickey with a full-out beard. He's only seventeen. Can seventeen-year-olds even manage to grow one? 

“It’ll keep my face warm,” Mickey argues. "Plus I won't have to spend money on razors- that Mandy ends up stealing anyways. Fucking bitch's got Chewbacca legs." 

"You earn wages now!" Ian exclaims. 

"Yeah, and _you_ force me to pay for cigarettes. Something's gotta give, Lucy," Mickey says. He takes a Mars Bar from the counter and begins unwrapping it. 

"Are you  _punishing_ me?" Ian asks incredulously. 

"I have better ways to do that," Mickey smirks. And Ian gulps at that. He can feel his pants tightening, and this is  _not_  the appropriate time. 

Ian watches Mickey bite the chocolate he nicked, and how his throat clenches as he swallows. All Ian can think about is how  _good_ those lips would be around his cock- oh God he really needs to get his head out of the gutter.

Fuck, working with Mickey is such a distraction.  

* 

"So Ginger General, how's the classes going?" Mickey asked conversationally. They were at the dugouts and the sun was setting. Ian felt a wave of calm because this was so familiar and comfortable.

Ian scowled. “If we’re coming up with titles, I’d rather be Officer.” 

"Go away, I'm the boss," Mickey tells him. 

"No," Ian says, shaking his head.

"So how's Lit going?" Mickey inquires.  

"I personally could do without Robert Frost, but what can you do?" Ian grumbles. 

"Is he the 'road-less-whatever-you-call-it' guy?" Mickey asks, scratching his chin. 

"You paid attention in English?" Ian asks proudly. He can’t help grinning.  

" _No_. But that stupid fuckers' voice just fucking drills its way into your head," Mickey says with a shrug. His neck has gone red and he looks embarrassed. Ian wishes he didn't because there was no need to.  

"Urmm. So-hmm-I-I was-" Ian starts uncomfortably. 

"Spit it out, kid," Mickey tells him. 

"Haveyouconsideredcomingbacktoschool?" Ian rushes out. He really does believe that school would be a good idea for Mickey, even though they’ve had this conversation before. The brunet was _smart_ (even though Mickey refuses to believe that). 

" _What_?" Mickey asks in confusion. 

"School. Have you thought about it," Ian says calmly. He needs to present a level-headed argument, since Mickey is already so skittish. 

" _No._ We already discussed this. Get off my back!" Mickey says with force. His hands are clenching and Ian knows he has to tread carefully. 

“I know. I’m sorry. I was just wondering,” Ian utters.

“Look, I’m not like you. I’m _fine_ here. This is home,” Mickey grumbles.

“Okay,” Ian tells him.

“Good.”

* 

Ian wasn't stupid. He wasn't naïve. He knew this was a possibility. Maybe he wasn't full-out shouting-from-rooftops, boombox-above-his-head, hearts-all-over-his-notebook in love with Mickey, but he could see it happening. And this was such a slippery slope because there was no  _future_  here. Mickey made that abundantly clear.  

Ian was going to go to West Point. He was going to get  _out_  of Southside Chicago. And Mickey- well Ian had no clue what the brunet's plans were.

* 

“Why the fucking hell does Pythagoras insist on making my life so hard?” Ian grumbles from behind the cashiers counter. He had his books open in front of him, but all he was really doing was using them to bang his head on.

“I could make you hard instead?” Mickey says with a smirk. His stubble was getting longer and there were bits of crumbs caught up in it. Mickey was a mess (like always), but the rebellious facial hair was a point of fascination for Ian. All the redhead wants is to run his hands all over Mickey’s face.

“No. I need to concentrate,” Ian replies, snapping out of his musings. “I wish I could take the cosine rule and shove it up Frank’s ass.”

“Nothing should be shoved up _his_ ass,” Mickey said bleakly as he grimaced.

“Fine. We’ll concentrate on shoving things up your ass exclusively,” Ian says with a grins and then pouts. “I hate all this work, Mick.”

"Well, you know what they say, Gallagher," Mickey softly says as he gets closer to Ian. 

"Urmm," Ian murmurs. He couldn't think with Mickey so close. The sweet smell of cigarettes, with a hint of citrus (god knows where that comes from), and something else so distinctly  _Mickey_  completely encompasses Ian. "What's that?" 

"Life's a dick," Mickey says, as he slowly but surely palms Ian through his jeans. Ian’s breath hitches, and he knows that the way he _wants_ Mickey is just so damn transparent. And fuck, Ian was getting hard so fast. They hadn't even locked the door to the store. Who the fuck even cares about that? Ian certainly doesn't. "When it gets hard,  _fuck_ it." 

As soon as those words slipped out, though, Mickey extracts himself from Ian and begins walking away. 

"Hey, where are you going Mick?" Ian asks loudly. "Mickey!" 

"Sorry Gallagher. Got rounds to do," Mickey says with a smirk and a shrug. He knows what he's doing. That smug,  _smug_ bastard. 

"What the fuck about follow-through?" Ian practically shouts Mickey's way. 

"Later," Mickey replies. 

"Fucking  _follow_ -through!" Ian whines. "Mickey!" 

"Fuck off," Mickey said with his back to Ian. 

"This is bad sportsmanship!" Ian calls after him. 

But Mickey had already left by then.

* 

All this extra homework on top of his junior ROTC training was taking a toll on Ian. But this was all for a reason, and of course his hard work and determination would be rewarded. Ian reminded himself, once again, that change is the only constant. This wasn't  _it_. This wasn't all his life was going to be. He  _is_  going to get out of here. Maybe (hopefully) Mickey might (hopefully) give them a real shot.  

* 

He just _knows_ something is wrong because Mickey refuses to take his shirt off. But Ian is a needy (and nosy) little bitch, and tugs it up anyways. 

"At least I wasn't pistol whipped," Mickey tries to joke. And that just makes Ian angrier. He knows his face is probably the shade of his hair by now. Ian’s fingers deftly brush over the discoloration on Mickey’s pale skin, and the way the lashes seem to ridge. The brunet’s back is a rainbow of red, green and purple. He withdraws his hand when Mickey winces.

“Sorry,” Ian mutters as Mickey wriggles out of Ian’s grasp. "I don't like Terry.”

"I don't like Frank," Mickey argues. 

"I don't like Frank either," Ian replies, raising his eyebrows. He could see Mickey roll his eyes and grimace. 

"Ian, stop,” Mickey whispers.

“He can’t just do that,” Ian argues.

“Stop!” Mickey mutters.

“ _No_. Please. Just- just- _please_ come over to mine. Tonight. Or for however long you need,” Ian begs.

“No. Nothing’s going on. Things are fine,” Mickey maintains. Ian scoffs at that. He just doesn’t know what to do with someone that won’t even _admit_ that there’s a problem.

“Please,” Ian requests.

“If you make me choose, you know I won't pick you, right?" Mickey softly says. His eyes are so wide and earnest, and he looks like he's trying to tell him how sorry he is without words. "He's all I know." 

"I know that, Mick," Ian tries to keep his voice steady. "I just  _hate_  him."  

Ian knows it's pointless getting mad at Mickey when  _Terry's_ the one that has left those welts on Mickey's back. There's nothing he can do, and it's suffocating watching someone you care about disregard his wellbeing so casually. Mickey's a big boy, and he would hate for Ian to interfere. 

"I know you're all noble and into that shit. But I don't need someone to fucking save me. Thisis my life and it's a  _good_ life," Mickey lashes out at him. 

Ian wonders how Mickey could be so delusional. But he keeps quiet, even though it’s pretty easy to tell he's seething. He just doesn't need to push Mickey away right now.  

*

"I'd rather slip and fall in shit..." Mickey says. Ian’s stocking the shelves and Mickey’s following him (more like getting in the way, but whatever).

"Than fall in love?" Ian asks.  _With me. With me. With me._  

"Yup. I don't need that," Mickey scowls. Ian knows that he always has to read between the lines when it comes to Mickey. But he can't help how shitty those words make him feel. 

It sucked sometimes. All the people that couldn't love him. All the people that hit him, all the people that were better than him, and all the people that left him. 

“Yeah. Love- love seems stupid,” Ian offers lamely.

*

"Well at least I never needed a beard since I can grow one on my own," Mickey snaps back at him. 

"Poorly executed, Mick. Plus Mandy is a great beard," Ian replies. They were playing video games at the Milkovich house, and their hands kept brushing as they reached out for more popcorn. Ian knew he was doing it on purpose, and he kind of hoped Mickey was too.

"Pity you aren't manly enough to survive without a beard. Maybe one day you won't need to hang around Mandy so much," Mickey says, casually. Ian notices that his ears have started going red, though. 

"Nah. I love her," Ian replies. He does love Mandy. So much. "Plus have you seen my arms? They are Hercules equivalent." 

"Hercules was a fag," Mickey informs him. 

"Well, so am I," Ian says defensively.  

Mickey squirms at that. He's funny like that. He doesn't want to admit it and he doesn't want Ian to admit it either. He's scared to think that he'll be a fag by association. Which Ian thinks is completely ridiculous since his fagginess obviously comes from the fact that he needs Ian to stick it in him so often.  

"Well  _I'm_ not. We don't kiss because we ain't fags," Mickey says. 

* 

"Lip. West point. How does he get  _my_ dreams just handed to him on a silver platter?" Ian dejectedly says. He could tell that Mickey didn’t know how to comfort Ian. "I was supposed to get out of here." He's shaking, and he can't control it. This mixture of rage and sadness is making his head throb. His chest feels so tight and his all of a sudden he feels like he can't  _breathe_. He doesn’t have a future. This is it. Stupid, fucking Canaryville.  

That's why you don’t make plans. Monica always warned them, "change is the only constant." Nothing is set in stone. You go with the flow. You  _Monica_ your way through life. Selfishly never giving a fuck about the people you leave behind. 

Their foreheads were touching and Ian could feel Mickey's breath heating up his face. Mickey was cradling his head, and neither of them spoke. Slowly, Ian fell into the rhythm of Mickey's breathing and started to calm down. But Mickey didn't let go. 

"Mickey. I have  _nothing_ anymore," Ian sniffles. He knows he's pathetic. He knows Mickey will think he's some gay-ass weak little punk. He just can't bring himself to care. 

"You got me," Mickey says, so soft that Ian could barely hear him.  

And that was a really nice sentiment coming from Mickey. But it was also such a lie. Ian didn't have Mickey. Not the way he wanted Mickey at least.  

*

"Contrary to what you might believe, alcohol is not one of the major food groups," Ian smirks at Mickey. "I can't believe that’s all you've had this whole day." 

"Well someone refuses to let me steal from this place I work at," Mickey snarls. 

"You can afford to pay now," Ian insists. 

"Well I'd rather pay for things I can't live without. Alcohol, cheesesticks and pizza rolls," Mickey declares. “If it makes you happy, you can ring up a snickers bar for me.”

Ian's still a bit raw from his rejection to West Point, and Mickey's been  _nicer_ ever since then. Ian doesn't know if it's a temporary thing, but he's not complaining. 

“You’ll pay?” Ian smiles at Mickey.

“Just this once. You know, for the economy,” Mickey grumbles as he scratches his beard. It was a proper (but slightly patchy) beard by now. The black color of the beard really enhanced the redness of Mickey’s mouth, and sometimes all he wanted to do was run his tongue all over the brunet’s lips. Ian’s biggest problem with the beard, though, was Mickey’s refusal to let him play with it. Ian is certain he might have a beard kink (or maybe it was just Mickey kink- who the fuck knows?).

“The economy appreciates your efforts,” Ian says, inclining his head. Mickey rolls his eyes and grins at him. His stomach flutters in the pathetic way it always does for Mickey. 

*

Ian walks into the Kash and Grab an hour later than he’s supposed to, but hopefully Mickey’s able to cover for him. He’s so frustrated with Lip and just wants to strangle the fuc-

"What happened, Ian?" Mickey softly asks him. And for a second Ian is distracted because Mickey said his  _name_. It's such a rare occurrence, and even through all of his issues with Lip, his heart still starts beating faster.  

He sees Mickey scanning his form. He can tell when Mickey's eyes notice his bruised knuckles, and the shiner he's certainly going to get on his face. Ian can taste the dried blood from where his lip is split.

"C'mere," Mickey whispers. His voice is so gentle and hesitant that Ian just drifts towards him. Mickey takes Ian's hand and carefully examines the bruises. They're so close that Ian can inhale Mickey's stupid citrus scent, and it just comforts him. 

"You're not going to make a big deal if I nick some things?” Mickey teases as he opens a bottle of mineral water and pours some onto his ragged up scarf. The brunet gently starts to wipe the blood on Ian’s lips. “You’re gonna look like hell in the morning.”

“Can’t always be pretty, Mick,” Ian sighs. Mickey likes to pretend he doesn’t care about Ian, but Ian knows he _does_.

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up while I do this, would ya?” Mickey mumbles. Ian rests his hands on Mickey’s waist as Mickey continues to fuss over the redhead’s injuries. Ian can’t help but grin at the way the brunet’s face scrunches up with concentration.

Things would be okay. He had Mickey. 

* 

“You grow a wonderful beard, Mick,” Ian said as he caressed Mickey’s cheek. This was a rare opportunity to touch Mickey. He gets all pliant in his post-coital state, and Ian loves taking advantage of that. He’d been dying to get his hands on the beard. 

“Thanks,” Mickey murmurs.

They are at the abandoned building. Ian is sitting down and leaning against a wall, with Mickey’s head on his lap. Their jeans are unbuttoned and both of them are completely shirtless. Ian is rubbing comforting circles on Mickey’s back.

"Do you ever think about the future?" Ian prodded. 

"I don't have a future, kid," Mickey replied. There was resignation in his voice, and suddenly, Ian feels grateful that he even had dreams to begin with. And he realizes that he still has hope for some new dreams to take place of the old dead ones. He just needs to figure some things out.

"You could," Ian insists. 

"I always figured I'd end up dead in a ditch somewhere by forty," Mickey says. 

Ian flinches at that. The worst part is that he doesn’t know if Mickey’s kidding.

“No,” Ian says.

“Its only life, kid,” Mickey murmurs. “I’ll be fine.”

“Still, there must be something?” Ian prods.

“Maybe. We’ll see how it turns out,” Mickey says evasively. His ears are starting to turn red, though.

“Will _we_ be fine?” Ian asks hesitantly.

“I’m sure _we_ will, Ian,” Mickey sighs, smiling.

* 

Ian knows it. Maybe there is some slim chance that he will see Mickey grow his fucking beard to his chest. And maybe in some creepy land, Ian could help braid it.  _They_ were going to get out of here. 

* 

And then Frank found out and it all went to shit.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to throw apples (or roses) at me, come find me at [allfifteenknuckles.tumblr.com](http://allfifteenknuckles.tumblr.com)


End file.
